Blame It on the Ganja
by Mariagoner
Summary: In retrospect, Travis decided that tricking Wes into smoking a pound of premium reefer was maybe not the best idea. Wes & Travis friendship, in therapy.


For lovely **Raven2547**, who wrote me an utterly adorable Wes/Kendall fic ("Just Like Before") to satisfy my late-night cravings! This is a wee, silly bit of Wes & Travis crack but I do hope you enjoy, darling! And once again, thanks goes out to the amazing **asphaltcowggrl**, who talked me through this fic and many, many others. Check out her fic as well—she is fantastic and captures Wes & Travis perfectly!

* * *

In retrospect, Travis decided it was probably a bad idea to have tricked Wes into smoking so much refined reefer.

* * *

The thing with Wes, the thing that a lot of people didn't realize about Wes, and the thing that even Wes himself hadn't quite cottoned on to was this.

Wesley Mitchell, top detective of the LAPD, proud graduate of Yale Law, acclaimed lawyer in the past and accomplished officer of the present, was kind of a pissy little _bitch_ at heart.

It wasn't that he _meant_ to that way. (At least, so went Travis' way of thinking.) It was just that buried deep inside Wes—buried somewhere deep past his weird anal tendencies (which, _eww_, phrasing) and his obsessive-compulsive desires to bury all emotional responses in work and to drive everyone else off from him constantly—was the desire to always prove himself, the desire to always be the alpha male, the desire to climb atop a heap of his enemies and then piss on them to prove that he was a manly man indeed.

If you thought about it—and Travis had to spend a distressing amount of time doing so, thanks to goddamn _couple's therapy_, and if he had known that only _almost_ getting shot would lead to that, he would have eaten a bullet _happily_—Wes spent a surprising amount of time verbally whipping out his dick and trying to fly around the room on it like it was some kind of broomstick.

(Travis thought it was pure penis envy. Hey, after the number of times women had gone nuts over _his_ equipment, he was pretty sure Wes had developed an inferiority complex.)

(Sad but true, honestly.)

And given that Wes was practically Conan the Barbarian in a well-tailored suit with a law degree, the easiest way to make him do something was good ol' reverse psychology.

The more you told Wes he couldn't do something, the more determined he was to whip out his broomstick and fly around the room defiantly.

(Damn. Maybe listening to hot Dr. Ryan _did_ lead to some revelations after all.)

At any rate, it led to Wes smoking ganja that one time and going nuts.

So. Maybe there was an upside after all.

* * *

It went down like this.

There had been a pound of the stuff. Pure and premium. Confiscated by narcotics and tied to a smuggling ring.

He'd looked it. He'd raised his eyebrow. He'd distinctively said:

"You know what, man? You would be completely hilarious if you were on that."

Wes' eyes had immediately narrowed. "Oh really? Because that would be _oh so_ professional?"

Travis had simply smiled at him, knowing that would annoy him the most. "Sure. Maybe it'd help ease the stick you've got growing up your ass and up your nostrils. Pity we'll never know, though?"

Never being one to turn down a challenge of any sort, no matter how stupid, Wes' eyes went even slantier. "And why's that? Not that I would ever do anything so puerile, as you well know."

Travis shrugged, looking airily away. "Sure. Wouldn't want you to take any chances, no matter small. Might interfere too much with your self-control and ass clenching skills."

And _now_ that squinty mutha was looking a mite murderous. "Oh really? Because I wouldn't be able to handle even one little smoke? Is that what you're saying?"

Travis sighed and heaved his shoulders once more. "Welp, no shame in it. You probably couldn't even touch that stuff without passing out, dude. Kind of a light-weight, after all. So sad, when you know most cops are made of tougher stuff."

And when Wes' eyes abruptly went wide with rage, Travis knew he had his partner over a barrel.

Wes would argue, of course, but in the end, he never _could_ walk away from a wager. No matter _how_ many times he'd always lose against his far superior partner.

And by the time Wes had confiscated a spliff, Travis was practically wetting himself with glee.

Travis had thought that there was no way something this entertaining could go wrong.

So of course, it backfired immediately.

* * *

The fatal flaw in the plan, of course, was _couple's therapy_.

They went twice a week, regular as clock-work, and still something in Travis' brain blocked out the date and time as a meeting came ever closer, like he was suffering from chronic amnesia from having to deal with something so horrifying and traumatic mere mortal men blocked the memories out of their mind instantly.

(Then again, the last time he'd been in couple's therapy, he'd heard a nice old white dude old enough to be his disappeared daddy explain how erectile dysfunction had taught him new ways of using his tongue on his finally satisfied wife. If that didn't count for horrifying trauma, he didn't know what would fit the bill right now.)

The fly in the appointment was couple's therapy and their requested company within the very same day one Wesley Mitchell had been enticed into drugged sin and thus, was not precisely coherent _at all_.

Which wouldn't have been so bad if Wes just kept his mouth shut and glared at everyone as though he were planning on poisoning them later and then pissing on their graves, as was often the case. But apparently, a spliff of pure premium actually _did _do some damn strange things to him.

For one, it made the man—usually so stoic he wouldn't change expression if you set his hair on fire during the line of work—_giggly_.

Apparently, Mary Jane really _was_ too much for him.

And it didn't help that even as they entered the session, Wes was covered in a fine orange film of dust from the Cheeto binge Travis had let him have due to the fact that it was _hilarious._

(Normally, buttercup over there never let anything less than grade-A certified organic hippy crap inside him. The thought of how he'd look watching all the less-than-discreet videos Travis had shot of him scarfing down bag-after-bag of the good stuff almost made baby-sitting him as he pawed at Travis' shoulder and earnestly informed his partner that he had always been envious of Travis' visible chest hair bearable.)

(_Almost_.)

(…Oh, who was Travis kidding—that part was _so_ worth it. It'd be good blackmail material for _years_!)

But far less worth it was the look on the group's face and Dr. Ryan's lovely mug in particular as they all turned to glare as one at Travis about the time that Wes stumbled in, took his regular seat, stretched out to cover Travis' as well, and then aimed a shiny, sweet, disturbingly orange-tinted grin at the entire lot of them.

"Are we ready to get started?" Wes chirped—goddamn _chirped_, like he were a damn cuckoo bird and not the most anal-retentive sunnovabitch to have ever walked the earth—and then clapped his hands (his! Hands!) in apparent glee. "Because you know how much I love doing all of this with everyone here!"

As one, the group blinked. And turning to him, Dr. Ryan glared yet again.

_This is all on your head_, her gorgeous eyes said. _And if you screw up group therapy, I will eviscerate you slowly_.

Which… _whoa_. He didn't even realize she could almost hit Wes levels of balls-droppingly terrifying through her face alone.

But it wasn't as if he didn't deserve it. And even as Travis watched Wes tear up the room, he knew he would be in for it eventually.

Still, that just meant he had to enjoy the show all the more while it was occurring.

And a Wes that was stoned off his mind did put on a show indeed.

* * *

An hour later, surrounded by shredded poster-board that an exhausted Wes was now lying atop of, the session mercifully—_mercifully_—ended.

Of course, _that_ had only happened after Wes had gone around the group during their weekly compliment-everyone-to-make-them-feel-better fest to shake each individual hand several time, take them all by the shoulders, stare deeply into their eyes, and tell them that he dearly hoped they would experience the greatest love-making they would ever have in their life tonight.

There were now Cheeto-covered hand-prints over everything. _Everything_.

At some point, Travis was pretty sure Peter had started weeping quietly.

And if that weren't enough, Wes' stoned attempts at making everyone around him fall in love didn't exactly stop at getting creepily invasive at their bedroom antics either. Although Travis felt almost disturbingly sure that the women in the room had enjoyed it when Wes had stripped off his shirt, thrust out one hip, and invited them all to form a conga line and frolic as they all became one.

Dr. Ryan took a _disturbingly_ long time to tell Travis to tackle his partner and get his clothes back on afterward.

(And seriously? That shit was just _unseemly_. Wes' torso was as blinding white as a vampire's. Travis was pretty sure with a polish, he would be able to see his reflection eventually.)

Needless to say, by the end of an afternoon whose _least_ disturbing moment involved Wes trying to touch people's hair and give them soothing little pats. Which Grace in particular seemed to enjoy terribly much… making Travis shudderingly suspect that her husband's tongue technique wasn't _quite_ as refined as it could be, god help them all.

By the time their session was over, the men had the thousand-yard stare of shell-shocked army captains, while most of the women looked disturbingly ready to pour barbeque sauce on Wes' disturbingly untanned torso and _go to town_.

Which even Wes didn't deserve because, well, _goddamn_. These harpies, and lord love them because they were a support group Travis loved him, were _terrifying _when it came to such things.

(Unless Wes was bitching off not eating fries in his car again in which case, Travis was willing to deliver his partner to the lion's dens with a ball-gag and a ribbon tied around his neck. Because, _really_.)

Wes had long since collapsed on his erstwhile attempt to decoupage some sort of crazed collage that would express his full love for his partner, his therapist, his group, his new-found family, and possibly anyone else within circle of 30 feet. Travis had had to take the scissors away from Wes after he'd started bawling about how beautiful everyone was and how sad he'd be to go home alone without their company as well.

Looking down at him now, Travis couldn't help but feel a little sorry.

Not enough _not_ to make fun of him later, of course—standards _had _to be upheld.

_But_.

It was enough to make Travis feel a bit bad about what he had done.

Just a bit.

Maybe.

Travis looked down at his partner's wan, slack, utterly drained face as Wes breathed in the delicious fumes of hastily-applied glued now drying on his pasty face and decided that he was basically not a very good person.

_Oh hell_. Travis had a feeling he'd really stepped in it. And judging by the look on Dr. Ryan's face, she knew it as well.

She was also canny as hell—another point in her fine, foxy favor. And of course, it was just as she, Wes and Travis were alone in the room and Travis had begun bending over to start tugging Wes into place so he could drag the blond away that she interrupted him, her voice as cool and enigmatic as ever.

She said, simply: "Mr. Marks, what do you think you are doing?"

Travis blinked and replied: "Um."

Not the most eloquent answer but she nodded anyway. "Yes, I see that. But Travis—what did you think was going to _happen_?"

He winced and said: "Er."

Still not very informative. One of her sleek eyebrow's rose and she said: "Yes, I know. But you realize Wes is almost certainly going to eviscerate you with a spoon once he recovers, right?"

Travis sighed. "Absolutely."

And then Dr. Ryan smiled in a way that was tiny, delicate, and almost… _wicked_, and said: "Be sure to bring all the video evidence next time. I'm sure the whole group will enjoy a chance for analysis, after what they've been put through tonight."

And even as Travis began dragging away his semi-comatose partner, he had to whistle and hand it to her.

"Well, buddy. You might have humiliated yourself and you'll probably kill me once you're back but we apparently made a break-through after all. After all…"

And here he looked down at ol' Buttercup with a smile.

"She never _winked_ at me before. That's a good sign, right?"

And even as his partner continued to happily drool away, Travis smiled and decided: _right_.

He was still going to get his ass royally kicked tomorrow... but seeing Tighty Whitey relaxed for once probably made it worth-while.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Reviews, comments, and questions for this fic would be lovely and gladly received! I'm especially hoping you'll let me know how well Travis' POV worked out for you in this story. I know it's short but I've never written Travis before and I'm worried about getting him right—especially since the 6th chapter of my Wes/Kendall story (Blame it on the Alcohol) will feature him extensively. Was he too chatty? Too verbose? Too insulting toward ol' Buttercup? I know this is still a crack-fic but do I have our main man about right? Thanks for your help ahead of time!


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